


for the love of

by phantomas (sil)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-27
Updated: 2010-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:52:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sil/pseuds/phantomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written in 2006, birthday gift for mytimehaspassed.</p>
    </blockquote>





	for the love of

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2006, birthday gift for mytimehaspassed.

Dean is half awake as John guns the Impala's engine and drives away. Not even midnight yet. The bed stinks of sweat and sex. Dean turns on his side, arms wrapped around his torso, naked and bared, the sheets mostly on the floor. He stares at the thin line of salt grains sprinkled under the window mirroring the pale moonlight outside. His throat aches. He keeps staring at the window, at the world outside that keeps turning and turning and turning…wonders what Sammy is doing, at Stanford. Wonders when John'll be back. If there's a note for him, on the table on the opposite side of the room, with coordinates.  
Instructions.

_Careful, boy…that's it. That's right. Hold it, just like that. Good boy. _

Could be a S&amp;W, or John's dick. The words would be exactly the same. What makes Dean clench his fists, nails digging into his palm, is how it's always him asking. "Teach me, dad," and "I can do it, I want to, dad."

'Dad' this, and 'dad' that.

The bruises on his skin, that one time, and Sam was whispering with eyes too shiny, "I don't know, Mrs. Williams, I don't know. My dad wouldn't, Mrs. Williams…it's only us," and it's another packed car, a few boxes left behind, Sammy's huge eyes in the rear-mirror, "I didn't tell her anything, I swear!" and Dad just looking at him, then at Dean, and Dean shrugging, glancing out of the car window, the trees blurred away on the side, and dad's bites itching on the back of his thighs.

"No, Dean. I said no," but somehow Dean never listened, because John's breath was warm on his lips, and Dean liked whiskey already, and there was no one else at that point. "Sammy's at school. C'mon dad…" and that's when he should have pushed you away, because a good father would do that, wouldn't he? But Dean has always known that Dad would do everything, anything for him, _for Sammy, too, but not Sammy, not Sammy_, so he pushed and John gave in and his fingers left bruises on Dean's hips, Dean's nipples.

It's not that he minds when John calls him Mary. Sometimes, it happens, and John is almost always drunk when it does. It's just that he's his father, and this shouldn't have happened in the first place.

The shivers on his skin, that other time, and Sam looking at them, hunter's quiet steps in his own house, because he must have heard something, must have seen something _when? what?_ and so he'd come back, bailed on school, _our smart, clever Sammy_, to find his father and brother in bed, "…rutting like ANIMALS!" he screams at you when you track him down later on, when you try to explain and no, Dean, there are no explanations really.

"No, Dean. No. It's …revolting," his little brother sobs, rubbing the palm of his hands on his jeans as if he's tainted, dirtied, too, by this family and what they do and Dean sees him for the first time in years, how tall he is, how grown up, how like John he is, and wishes he could tell him that it wasn't like that, it was… Truth is, Dean doesn't remember how it was, not anymore.

Since Sam left, it's harder.

John would come, and go, and leave, and return, and check on Sam. And Dean would ask, "Please, dad. Please," murmurs, whispers, fabric pushed aside in seek of flesh, double layers of cotton not enough, never enough, to hide the heated skin underneath, blood thrumming loudly in his ears and mouth and lips, wanting to drawn and breathe and taste Dad, "Dad, dad, yes, harder, yes. Please." Even when the bed-frame is shaking, and Dean's hands are frantic to find a grip, sliding sweaty against the cheap wallpaper, even then, "harder, please, dad, harder," it's all he can say. Because it's always been like this, since he can remember, he and dad and a bed and little Sammy, only Sammy is not little anymore, and not with them anymore, and it's just him, and dad, and a bed, or a wall, or a desk, or his knees, his ass, his mouth, it doesn't matter, only that it's happening, and it's wrong _revolting, sick disgusting_, but it happens, hands and tongues and cocks and come and bruises and tears.

Because it doesn't matter how many girls make him turn his head, spread their legs for him, kiss him goodbye. Dad is the one that counts, Dad is the one that always comes back, Dad is the one whose marks on his own body Dean licks where he can reach them, and brushes and presses hard with his fingertips where he can't. Dad is the one that can hurt him.

Dad is the only one that can hurt him.

The note on the table has numbers on it, spelled with faded ink and firm hand. Dean folds it and pushes into his back pocket, leaves the room in a mess, the sweat and smell and stank of sex lingering after him.

New Orleans, here he comes.


End file.
